Mindless Surfing
by byronsar
Summary: Every second seemed to stretch on for eons, yet a minute seemed to pass by in a heartbeat. His breaths always came rushed, yet he felt like he moved in slow motion. - AKA my way of spreading my depressed feelings b/c the spiderman FFH trailer was supposed to drop today and it didn't. - one-shot (could be two-shot if enough people like it I guess idk) - rated T for one bad word


It was cold. It was always cold.

He couldn't remember what warmth felt like. The blaze of the sun on his back as tred along hot gravel, barefoot, in the peak of the summer months. The burn of his lungs as he swung from building to building, adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. The slight twinge of his cheeks when May mentioned something about his childhood to Ned, or Michelle, or even Mr. Stark.

 _Mr. Stark._

He couldn't remember how the heat from Mr. Stark's body had been the last warmth he had felt before it all went cold. He couldn't remember how he filled with warmth every time Mr. Stark would praise his work, or call to check in on him, or even when Karen would mention how the man had recently checked his vitals (it was embarrassing that he took pride in the fact the someone would be concerned for his well-being, but nonetheless he found it comforting).

How long had it been since he'd seen his mentor last? Days? Months? Years? Peter couldn't tell. Every second seemed to stretch on for eons, yet a minute seemed to pass by in a heartbeat. His breaths always came rushed, yet he felt like he moved in slow motion.

All he knows that it's been too long. Too long since he's had contact with another person, or even- _shit-_ even _anything at all._ Too long since he's even managed to stand. Wherever he was, there wasn't food, water, shelter, or even really _air,_ yet he didn't seem to need them to survive. He did, however, suffer the consequences of not having access to these things that once were crucial to his survival. He, again, couldn't seem to stand up on his own, but he also had a killer headache, his stomach was constantly threatening to expel its nonexistent contents, and his vision became indecipherable some time ago.

And he still didn't die.

Yet that fact was beginning to become a burden.

What was the use of being alive if he was virtually dead already? The only thing different between him and a corpse was that he was still breathing, and at this point, he'd bet even that was debatable. He couldn't feel the ground beneath him, but he couldn't even tell if this place had a ground to begin with.

Right after his uncle had died, May had found a place that specialized in 'floatation therapy'- where your body is submersed in a dark tank of salt water and you feel nearly weightless. The idea behind it was, in a sense, to be 'one with your thoughts'- or 'Mindfulness Surfing". His Aunt thought it would help with his stress. But Peter wasn't stressed or anxious; he was depressed, and the thought of being alone with his mind terrified him. Yet he still found himself in that tub, floating for nearly a whole hour, plagued with the bloody face of his uncle lying on the concrete.

He skipped two days of school after that.

He felt like that now, in a way, except he wasn't afraid. Flashes of his uncle didn't cross his mind, the emptiness he felt didn't make him feel like he was drowning, and he didn't feel the eminent need to escape.

He was mindlessly surfing through a dark abyss, with zero hope of being rescued, yet he felt nothing.

And then he heard it.

It was faint, and he wouldn't have been able to pick it out if he didn't have advanced hearing, but it was there. A hum. Like the buzzing of an air conditioner or the distant sounds of a highway. Different noises morphed together into one low beat.

Peter let out a breath he didn't know he had be holding for… god knows how long. The familiar feel of sound against his eardrums was a kind of calming he hadn't known he'd needed, but after being deprived of it for as long as he has, it almost seemed like a necessity.

Then the noise began to grow- slowly at first, his ears picking up small distinctions in the hum: a word, a crash, a yell. He thought he might've recognized voices of people he once knew, but he couldn't pinpoint it. His legs began to twitch, as if his body was yearning to follow the noise, yet he had no strength left to even lift his head. His ears were beginning to hurt with the constant drone of noise and just as he began to fight another wave of nausea, the sounds escaped him.

After a pause, all he saw was white.

Then the sounds were back; different, yet clear and distinct.

And he could breathe again, his lungs no longer feeling crushed.

He felt the ground beneath his fingertips, textured yet smooth.

Color swam beneath his eyelids, mixes of blues, greens, and violets.

And the Sun. He could feel it shinning against his cheeks, the burn of its beams prickling the hairs all over his body.

He was rejuvenated, a newfound energy coursing through his veins.

So he opened his eyes.


End file.
